Hermione Granger in The Golden Door
by J.L. Stone
Summary: Bulgaria and the surrounding Slavic countries are in a bit of a sticky wicket! When Hermione goes to Visit Viktor, she finds a very unsuspecting surprise on the way there! I stink with summaries IF you read, please review, 'cause it's rude to come and go
1. A Bite To Chew On

Chapter One

A Bite to Chew On

It had been a long and difficult process of persuading her parents to let her go, but in Hermione's opinion it was worth the wait. She'd been planning the trip to Sofia for weeks now, scheming every possible means of transportation. First she thought that she'd borrow Harry's broom, but then, if she had an accident he would probably never speak to her again—well, perhaps not never, but he would certainly be peeved for quite some time. Then, she thought that perhaps she could go by train, but it occurred to her that a train ride all the way to Sofia would be very costly, and all that boarding and unloading would become tiresome. So finally, with much disagreement from her parents, Hermione decided that her best bet would be taking a jet-plane out of London. It was faster and she hoped that the ride would be much less tedious than the train. It had taken her three months to scrape together enough 'Muggle' money to board the plane, and another week to convince her parents that she would be fine—that the airliner would _not _crash. Her mother had begged her not to go, but in the ender father had given the 'she's old enough to make up her own mind' speech, and that seemed to settle things, that is, until she got on the plane.

"Flight 109 now boarding passengers for Sofia. Flight 109 now boarding passengers for Sofia."

The flight attendant at the desk beneath a huge sign that read, **TERMINALFOUR**, made the announcement through a loud, slightly fuzzy microphone. Hermione stood up with her trunk heavy at her side. She had dressed warmly (her father had told her airlines were sometimes chilly) in a brown, fleece pullover and a pair of denim jeans. Her abundant, brown hair was pulled back into a half ponytail held by a pink, satin ribbon, and in her hand she was clutching her plane ticket with a death grip. She had never flown before, and the moment had finally seized her, sending her heart pounding. She swallowed hard and thought about Viktor, how nice it would be to see his face, and suddenly her feet seemed to come unglued from the pavement and she began to walk toward the terminal. She had just screwed up the nerve to get on the plane when a hand, roughly two or three times larger than hers, clamped down on her shoulder. Hermione nearly cried out.

"So sorry," said the voice behind the hand, and Hermione looked up. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, stood with his hand on her shoulder.

Hermione just stared—not _because _it was Fudge, but the way he was dressed . . . and seeing him in a _Muggle _airport threw her for a loop. As usually, the lime green bowler was clutched in his hands, but he had a pair of pinstriped pants on, gray and black in scheme, and a dark-green men's blazer hung loosely over his shoulders. Beneath the jacket he wore a white dress-shirt and a strange yellow and black striped tie with a clip in the shape of a duck. The minister looked odd indeed. Hermione gaped at him, speechless to his apparel—he obviously thought the ensemble looked good because he wore it with paramount confidence, but anyone who saw him, who didn't know who he was, would simply think him a madman. Fudge shot her a small, tooth-filled grin and said, "Miss Granger, how are you?"

"I'm very well," she answered, "but, Your Honor, I must be g—"

"Going to Sofia are we?" he inserted forcefully, though it had not been intentional, Hermione was quite certain. "Is Harry with you?"

"N-no." Hermione found herself stammering, trying to speak. Fudge took a look around the terminal, as if he expected Harry to jump out of a trash bin. When he could not locate Potter, the Minister fell silent and looked somewhat thoughtful as he stared at the departing times—though Hermione was sure he was not thoughtful at all, but rather he was squinting to see the times written on the board.

"You're Honor?" Hermione prodded, and immediately the Minister tore his eyes away and gave her a sideways glance. She was reluctant to ask, but her curiosity was too much. "Why are you in an airport . . . a _Muggle _airport?"

"Hsshush!" he scolded and the woman at the flight terminal looked at them funny as the line moved. They also took a step or so forward. Fudge leaned down to her and a look of seriousness clouded his face. "Don't say that word around _them_, they might catch on. No offense meant," he apologized smartly, remembering that Hermione was Muggle Born. "But I and a fellow are going to Sofia to straighten some things out with the Bulgarian Minister. They say they've been having some trouble with . . ." he looked around, making sure no one was in earshot, and he leaned in so close that Hermione could actually feel his breath on her face. "Werewolves."

"Well, sir. Why don't you just Apparate?" For seconds Fudge regarded her cautiously, then Hermione asked, "Did you say there is a werewolf—"

"Hsshush!" Fudge exclaimed again, and once more the flight attendant shot him a peculiar glance. Fudge continued to speak in a very low tone. "Look, the Ministry thinks it sharp for us to undergo the Muggle world, I mean with so many things happening lately . . . and with the last sightings of _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_, it is a good idea to have research handy on this world."

"Isn't that the Department of M—"

"Fudge . . ." a voice as sleek as a snake reached Hermione's ears, ending her objection, and both she and the Minister craned their necks to see just who had spoken. Hermione nearly gave a groan of dislike as she saw who was standing there behind them, pale pointed faces gleaming with sweat. Lucius Malfoy, accompanied by his son, Draco were fixed to the spot where they stood as if they had been forced into coming along. They looked like those cats with the sulky faces you often see being touted around airliners and such in tiny metal cages or holed boxes. However, upon seeing Hermione's face, Draco's features cracked and his mouth seeped into that normal, arrogant, simper he often got when he was about to say something exceptionally foul. Mr. Malfoy on the other hand was too engrossed with all the other Muggles running around in the terminal to even notice. Hermione had to keep from laughing at the tall, blonde man. He looked as though someone had petrified him because in a place this jam-packed with non-magical beings, he was as stiff as a board, glued to the spot where he stood—as though if he moved, if he so much as touched one of _them_ (as the Minister had put it), he might not be so perfect anymore. Of course, it was pure rubbish, and vaguely Hermione wondered how on earth he had avoided them while walking through the halls. Well, at least they were dressed better than fudge.

Draco sported a black sweatshirt with his initials embroidered in tiny print on the left breast in curly green and silver letters. The denims he wore were of fine quality, good material and the tennis shoes he wore were plain and white. Spotless. His white-blonde hair was not slicked back, but was missing its usual coat of gel and hung loose in a simple bowl-cut. His father, Lucius Malfoy looked rather business-manly; donning a three piece, black silk suite and expensive loafers. Beneath his pitch-black suite-jacket ( buttoned down the middle) were a grey dress-shirt and black tie. His pale blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck, and with the grey and black tones, his steely eyes were more prominent than ever.

"Lucius, good to see you," Fudge shook hands with Mr. Malfoy then, he turned to face the boy beside him. "And marvelous to see _you_ again Draco . . . my, you've really shot up, haven't you!"

Draco didn't say anything, and obviously his cold gaze unnerved the Minister because he quickly retracted from the blonde boy and addressed his father once more.

"Lucius . . . could I—could I have a word?" Fudge looked unexpectedly insistent, and after a sharp looked at Draco, Lucius nodded and was dragged off some distance. Hermione could not hear them, so she assumed Draco could not either.

"Why are you here, Granger?" Malfoy sneered, his sharp face full of trouble.

"Are you _running _away? Hogwarts too much for you?"

"No, thank you. I'm going to see Viktor."

"The Quidditch player?" Draco sounded somewhat surprised, but the moment passed. "Don't you know he's just going along with your rubbish?"

"Why does he still send me letters then?" she asked, and she crooked her hips, crossing her arms. Draco was _not_ going to drag her down now.

"He feels sorry for you and your teeth," Draco's smile widened until his face threatened to crack. Hermione was about to open her mouth and call him something very rude, but Mr. Malfoy and Fudge were walking back over to them. Draco shot her a sort of "Victory" smirk, but as they made their way further up the line, Hermione gave Draco an expression that declared "This isn't over you spoiled, little, snot".

------------------------------------------

Krum Estate was one of the oldest buildings in Sophia, built during the 17oo's, most likely refurnished and remodeled every decade or so. It was the sort of thing Hermione had only heard or dreamt of, but now, as she stood before it she had trouble actually accepting its authenticity. The place was huge, nestled beneath a mountainside, surrounded by thick bushy trees and overgrowths of plant life. Vines climbed up the sides of the three story house, latching on to windowsills and spiraling up the base support columns in a tight, symbiotic embrace. A natural wall of rocks guarded the front of the estate and the only passage into the entire place was a gate that had been somehow embedded into the stony wall. The windows were so shiny that they reflected the sun light back in glistening sheens of silver and platinum gold. The ground floor where the patio was had columns the size of mature yews, and they were festooned by etched depictions of twining leaves and nude, women carrying jars.

The second story was mostly composed of windows through which no one could see due to the heavy, burgundy drapes that had been drawn over them; and the third and final floor was perhaps the most interesting. On one side of the story there was a wonderfully decorated balcony with a covered roof so one could sit during rain or snow—but the balcony was not the odd thing there. Opposite the balcony, on the other side of the floor, there sat a highly decorative, golden door . . . but no stair or veranda beneath it. Outside it held all the glory of antique beauty mixed subtly with the innovation of the new millennia.

Two iron torchlight's flanked the front door on the inside, and on the outside on either side of the gateposts sat a Chimera statue with the head of a lion and the wings of a great bird. The figures gave the house a chilling feel, but Hermione suspected the coolness creeping down her spine was from the frigid air. So, she began climbing the hill toward the house.

When she reached the gate, the front door of the house cracked open. Hermione, oblivious, was trying to figure out how to open the gate.

_Maybe they've got to buzz me in, or some such. It's pure foolishness, having_

_This gate up! Who on earth would try to—_

"Hermi-on?"

"Viktor?" Hermione looked up from fiddling with the gate. And look up she indeed had to do.

He was taller than the last time they had met each other, but then, so was she. He was wearing long, midnight blue robes that were clinched at the waist by a vastly ornamented belt and the cloak he wore was made of a denser, black fabric with golden trim. Viktor's black hair was longer, a little past his shoulders, and his form had filled out somewhat—at least, he looked less gaunt than before, as if he had been eating more. The prominent nose and eyebrows hadn't changed much—other than he looked as though he'd tried _something_ to make his brows a little less bushy (they were a _bit_ thinner)—nor had the pale, olive skin tone faded. She looked him over once, then twice, and the third time she dimly noted that he was wearing a large, white bandage on one arm—she just assumed a Quidditch accident. But then, why hadn't he gotten spells to fix the injury? Maybe he'd refused spells—Viktor could be quite stubborn if he wanted to be.

"Wow!" Hermione managed to sputter. Viktor only smiled and stuck out his uninjured hand.

"Shall I help you through the gate?" He asked, his accent heavy as ever. Hermione was glad to here it, but the matter of getting through the gate puzzled her. So she stood and waited for him to open it. When he didn't move for several minutes, eyebrows creased with confusion, Hermione examined the gate and asked,

"Aren't you going to open it? I can't seem to find the handle."

"Eh . . . there is no handle." He replied. "Just step through. It is a . . . how you say it—" Viktor waved his undamaged hand through the air. "An illusion."

"An illusion?" Hermione repeated, then she thought back to platform nine and three-quarters. There, you would just step through the wall between platforms nine and ten, and you were where you needed to be. Perhaps the gate was sort of the same thing, but its soul purpose was to deter outsiders.

"Just step through," he repeated, and once more his hand thrust out to her, but this time it passed through one of the steely bars as though he were a ghost. Hermione took his hand and stepped up, passing with ease through the fake gate.

As they walked to the house, Viktor helped Hermione drag her bags along. Now that they were closer, she could have a nearer look at the bandage. It seemed larger than it had before, and there were some rusty stains showing through from where it had obviously been bleeding. Upon closer inspection, Hermione noticed that Viktor had gotten more muscular as well, she could see the small bulge of a bicep sliding under the dark, blue velvet of his robes. She wondered how he had changed so fast, perhaps it was that whole "boys mature later" thing coming into effect, but Hermione was certain that this was a bit excessive.

_Maybe Bulgarians are late bloomers. _She thought with slight amusement.

"How haff you been?" Viktor said, his syllables coming out harsh, as they usually did. It was understandable, Slavic was a difficult language to switch over from.

"Very well," she replied and paused a moment to adjust the strap on her laundry bag. Viktor paused on the hill as well, watching her fight with the defiant strap. He had one foot ready to stride, the other stretched out behind him. As she looked up, Hermione noted, that he looked like some strange, foreign crusader. She fixed the strap and they continued on.

"How have you been, then?" she asked.

Viktor seemed reluctant to answer, "M-many changez over summer, over the school year. Many hardsheepz."

"Ships, hard-ships," Hermione corrected. He didn't mind.

"Haard-shipz," he repeated. "Difficult timez for my family."

Hermione looked panicked, "Did I come at a bad time then?"

"No!" Viktor said quickly, he briefly paused in his steps but picked up once more. "Not a bad time. A very good time."

"And why is that?" She asked with a chuckle. Viktor did not answer for several minutes, until they reached the doorstep where they left her bags. A door on the other side of the patio, roughly knee high, swung open and ten or twelve house elves came scurrying out to whisk away the luggage. Hermione twinged slightly, seeing the little creatures strain to get her things off the porch. She did not believe in enslavement. She shook her mind free of the thoughts as Viktor put a hand on her own and opened the front door. As it swung open he announced, "Tomorrow is my birthday."


	2. The Dinner Fiasco

Author's Note: I re-wrote it! So, here it is, the revision of Chapter Two, because I hated the first draft, and apparently, so did some of my readers. I liked your criticism, it was perhaps the most helpful thing I've gotten so far. Sorry, I'm so slow at updating, also, I am very busy with school right now (I'm sure some of you can relate).

Chapter Two

The Dinner Fiasco

Viktor led Hermione into the den of his illustrious abode. It was dark within the edifice, with curtains drawn--thick and heavy--over the high, classical windows. The house elves carried her bags off, up the stairs, most likely to the room she would be staying in. Hermione still regretted having given up her luggage so easily: After all, she was the leader, founding member, and ONLY member of S.P.E.W., she should have at least held up to her own designs.  
In the den, a fire crackled warmly in the large, stone hearth, and above it a pot of tea was boiling nicely. Hermione looked and saw more draperies drawn over the windows, but in this room, the firelight made the place seem most cheerful and welcoming. The illumination spread over the aged, dust-covered pictures; some of which were missing their occupants. Pictures often lost their occupants when there were other paintings to visit in the house.  
In one corner, sitting very still and snoozing quietly was a woman. She was tall, pretty, and gaunt with long, wavy black hair and a big, Bulgarian nose. Her hands were lying in her lap as she dozed gently with a blue, knitted blanket thrown over her. She wore emerald green robes and around her neck a necklace of small, yellow topaz gleamed against the firelight.  
Viktor let go of Hermione's hand and quietly approached the woman, nudging her gently. She stirred with a small sigh and said: "Yes . . . ze man came by with ze milk . . "  
"Mahka? Mahka . . . byar ce . . . npeh"  
"Oh, Viktor . . ." her voice was weak, "I didn't hear you come in"  
Viktor laid a hand on her forehead and kissed her there soon after. He smiled and so did she. Hermione observed them for the longest time before she stepped forward.  
"Hebapeh," Hermione said the Bulgarian word awkwardly. It meant 'hello', she'd read that somewhere.  
"You must beh Hermi-on." she smiled at Hermione with a sweat, motherly mouth. Just above her lip was a mole that set her pale lips alight when she grinned. "You ahr as beautiful as Viktor has saihd"  
"Thank you." Hermione muttered. "You are Viktor's mother, no doubt? You have the same eyes." They did indeed have the same kind, deep eyes. His mother gave another warm smile.  
"Yes, I ahm his Moth-err." She laid back once more. "And I ahm very tired"  
"Zen we shall not kheep you awake." Viktor said as he kissed her on the forehead once more. "Sweet dreams, Mahka"  
She smiled sweetly as her eyes closed, and Viktor straightened. He turned to look at Hermione, but the warm smile he gave her did not reach his angst filled eyes.  
"Come, Hermee-on-nee, I show you ze dining hall." He swept an arm around her as she walked with him. As they made their way down a long, candle-lit hallway she thought, _My family only has a dining room_. His arm was warm around her waist and he held her closer so that she could lay her head on his chest. The Bulgarian seeker smiled.  
"I haff missed you, Hermee-on-nee"  
"I missed you too Viktor," she admitted, "but, I think we still need to work on your pronunciation"

"I know," Viktor admitted with a bit of a smile. "So . . ." he said with a contented sigh, "vhat haff you been up to?"

Hermione was led to a long varnished, oak table where Viktor pulled a seat out for her. She sat down, admiring the shining wood of the table as he seated himself in the chair beside her. Hermione put her hands in her lap and looked thoughtful for a moment, then a smile graced her features and she shot Viktor an impish look.

"Well . . . I've been reading _your _letters."

Viktor laughed and put a hand at the base of his neck, "Vell . . . it is the only vay ve can keep in touch."

There was silence for several moments. Hermione put a hand on his knee and patted him gently.

"So . . ." she said, "How old are you going to be?"

"Ah . . ." Viktor smiled, "Nineteen."

"Age catching up with you then, Viktor old boy!"

Hermione looked up, so did Viktor. There, standing in the doorway was a plump man wearing a gray, button-down shirt, black trousers, and a bright red cloak. He was going half bald, and there was a small mustache under his wide nose. Big, bright, brown eyes shimmered as Viktor rose from his seat and held out his arms.

"Uncle Orren!"

"Viktor!" The British man bellowed. "It's been ages! Last I saw you, you were no more than a young pup!"

Orren welcomed Viktor's embrace with a large one of his own. Hermione sat with a look of confusion, as if this sort of exchange was foreign to her. However, it was not the hug that confused her, rather, she wondered why his uncle was English rather than Bulgarian. She assumed he was an in-law, or some such.

The big man grabbed Viktor by the shoulders and pulled him away to study him for a moment. His face was serious as he scanned every inch of him.

"Let's have a look at you." He made small noises, grabbed Viktor's chin, surveyed his arms and finally, grinned hugely. "Real man now, eh!"

"Yes, Uncle." Viktor said, a little exasperated, as he was pulled into another crushing hug. Orren slammed a hand into his back and smile over the boy's shoulder.

"Ello, 'ello," he said, seeing Hermione. "And who is _this _lovely, little tart?"

Viktor stepped aside so that Orren could see Hermione better. She smiled, a little sheepishly as she was, for one of the first times in her life, regarded with some value.

"Hello, sir," she said gingerly. "I'm Hermione Granger, Viktor's . . . g-girlfriend." It was the one time she'd actually referred to _herself _as such. Uncle Orren blinked and looked at Viktor, then back at Hermione. He smiled sweetly, and began over, straightening out his shirt. He took Hermione's hand and kissed it gently.

"Ashanti," he uttered.

"Ah . . . thank you sir," Hermione giggled. She wasn't quite sure what to say.

Uncle Orren looked down at her with a gentle smile, "You're one lucky bloke, Viktor m'boy. She's a keeper."

"She . . . does not play Quidditch . . ." Viktor answered. Orren turned and looked at a him with a confused expression, which quickly cracked into a huge grin.

"Always the joker!" He laughed. "Viktor, I need to talk to you for a moment, about . . ." he smiled at Hermione, but the expression was fleeting. His voice had changed into something rather, cautious. "About that . . ._thing _tomorrow."

Viktor's brow furrowed and he looked momentarily lost. Then, a look of dawning comprehension filled his face and he uttered, "I vill return shortly, Hermee-on-nee."

Then, he was led off, down the hall by Uncle Orren who gave her one last sharp glance over his shoulder. Hermione was left alone in the dining hall.

She sat and waited for a while. Uncle Orren seemed like a nice man, but what was it that was so important that he couldn't talk about it in front of her. She was Viktor's girlfriend after all, she supposed. She crossed her legs and folded her arms as she sat in silence. It was cold in the old house, it made her wish she had packed heavier clothes.

Just then, she heard footsteps from the hall. Hermione straightened up, smiling a little. She didn't plan on asking Viktor what he'd talked about, but she hoped, deep down inside, that he would tell her eventually.

But, it was not Viktor who came from the hall, who glided in like a raven. This man was different, Hermione had not met him yet, but he immediately had a mysterious, dangerous air about him that made her skin tingle and her blood run cold.

He was tall and unnaturally slim with wan skin and dark, narrow eyes. The stranger donned robes of deepest red, with wide cut sleeves and a high collar, like a turtleneck sweater, but with tarnished silver buttons running straight down the middle. A long, heavy braid hung over on shoulder, and in it was entwined a gold, silken ribbon. His expression was of faint surprise at seeing Hermione, and the man stopped dead in the hall, eyes fixed to her with a wary gaze.

"Do you . . . need somezing?" He asked, his tone low and critical. Hermione twisted the hem of her sweater uncomfortably and answered him with a sideways glance.

"I . . . I'm waiting for Viktor to come back."

The man played his tongue along his teeth, scratching the patch of beard that pointed off his narrow chin. He gave her a once over look with his probing eyes.

"Hermi-on Grahnger?"

"Y-yes sir."

The stranger stepped forward, robes swishing as he walked. He was like some great, ghastly bird, Hermione noted. She smiled up at him weakly, her face visibly paled.

"Who are you?" She asked, then added, "Sir."

His lip curled and he bent a little to gaze into her eyes. His own narrow, cold ones piercing her mind, or so it seemed.

"Vhat a rhude child, you ahre." His brow furrowed. "To ahsk a mahn in hees own house who he is."

"I didn't mean—"

"I ahm Count Baldimier Krum," he interjected, "ze fifth."

"Wow, you must have a long family line."

"Indeed." The count answered, his black eyes swirling. He furrow his brow once more. "You ahr from Britain. . ."

"Y—"

"It vhas not a question, Miz Grahnger."

The silence between them became almost painful then. Hermione had the strong urge to get up and run from the room, but did not. After a while, the count straightened and nodded, finally walking off into the kitchen where she heard him scream at the cook to get to work. She sat in silence until Viktor returned, hoping she would not have to speak to that man again.

At dinner, Hermione dressed warmly in a long sleeved, grey shirt and a black, woolen, pleated skirt. She wore white stalkings and black socks, with her best pair of Mary Janes. With her hair brushes and face washed, she headed to the dining hall at seven thirty to find everyone there. Including the count.

Hermione took a seat beside Viktor, as far away from his father as she could. The smell of food wafted in from the kitchen, and soon something Hermione had never seen before was lain out on the table before them. It was piled high on the plates, curly noodles with a creamy, white sauce spread over them. Pieces of browned meat graced the tangle of noodles, and shreds of green spices colored the sauce delightfully. As side dishes there was sour kraut and big, thick sausages, steamed squash, bowls of olives, hunks of roasted meat, and freshly baked, steaming bread.

Everyone began eating at once, except for Hermione, who looked slightly taken aback by so much food. Viktor took a bite of his noodles, savoring it for several moments before he looked to Hermione. When he noticed she hadn't touched her food, he grabbed a piece of bread from the nearby basket, and laid it at the side of her plate. She looked up slowly and smiled. She picked up her fork and took a bite of the noodles, chewing slowly.

"Is it ghood?" Mrs. Krum inquired from across the table. Hermione looked up.

"Oh . . . yes ma'am, did you make it?"'

Mrs. Krum gave a short, loud laugh, like a bark. "Mein habittha, no! Ze house elves prepared everyzing you see here."

Hermione's stomach turned at the thought. Suddenly, the noodles didn't look so appetizing anymore. She put her fork down and picked up her napkin, spitting the remainder of the bite of noodles into it. Mrs. Krum eyed her with a raised brow.

"Hermi-on? Is somezing wrong?"

Hermione nodded slowly, bringing the napkin away from her mouth. She looked up at Viktor's mother with wide, slightly anxious eyes. "Have you ever thought of getting . . . _human _servants?"

Mrs. Krum looked slightly taken aback. "Vhat?" She said.

"Well," Hermione said, fidgeting in her seat, "there are a lot of advantages to having _human _servants."

"Like vhat?" Krum's mother looked to Uncle Orren, who shrugged and continued eating.

"Ah, yes . . ." Hermione frowned, "well . . . there's . . . well, slavery. Don't you know that having house elves is like slavery."

Mrs. Krum put her fork down and cocked her head. She looked like a dog who'd just heard a very high noise and wasn't quite sure of where it had come from. Hermione was aware of everyone staring at her, and she went suddenly red.

"Slavery?" The count uttered. "I thought house elves _enjoyed _serving humans."

"That's just the thing," Hermione protested, "if you use them, it's like exploiting their commitment. They _think _they have to serve us, but they don't really need to. They could just as easily live in the wild . . . I suppose."

Everyone went suddenly quiet. The only sound was the gentle clink of silver on china. When everyone was done, the plates cleared, just as they did at Hogwarts, and their contents were replaced with heavy whipped cream and strawberries. At the middle of the table was set a large stack of small angel food cakes, each with a small, circular dip in the center. Viktor grabbed two of these cakes and placed one on Hermione's plate.

Everyone ate in silence for several moments. Hermione however only stared at her plate, at the strawberries that were buried in a heavy white coat. She couldn't eat it. It wasn't because she wasn't hungry, but because she knew it was wrong for her to eat something that had been procured through slavery. What disgusted her the most however, was that the entire family didn't seem to care, even Viktor.

Finally, when everyone was done, the plates cleared, and the last thing that would hail the destruction of a nearly perfect dinner appeared. The tea.

Hermione didn't drink from the cup, but she held it between her hands. It was warm, and the old house was very drafty. As she sat pondering whether or not she should just go home, Uncle Orren spoke up.

"So, Viktor, old boy, how about tomorrow, eh? Are you ready?"

Viktor took a drink of his tea and set his cup down, smiling at Hermione, "I think so."

Hermione looked confused, "Ready?" She looked around. "Ready for what?"

Uncle Orren looked at her warily. Mrs. Krum gave him an aggravated look, then turned to Hermione with a fake smile on her face.

"It's nothing dear. A family tradition. He'll be gone for most of the night."

That was when Hermione got the feeling all girls get when they know something bad was about to happen. The kind of feeling that creeps up your spine, into your brain, and down your throat where it settles in your stomach and becomes a tight, nauseating knot. She looked to Uncle Orren, who had gone unnaturally silent, then to Viktor who seemed too interested in the depths of his tea to notice much else. But when she looked up and saw the Count, his lip curled and gazed into her eyes. His own narrow, cold ones piercing her mind.

She would have to find out what this "family tradition" was, before tomorrow night.


End file.
